


will you still love me (young and beautiful)

by hellstrider



Series: Thousand Miles Verse [4]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sad, Thousand Miles Verse, comforting sex, reupload, that's me, yes i came up with little lark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: "i'm going todiebefore you."
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Thousand Miles Verse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587544
Comments: 9
Kudos: 429





	will you still love me (young and beautiful)

**Author's Note:**

> title from young and beautiful by lana del rey
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier

It’s Jaskier’s thirty-second nameday when he blurts it out.

“I’m going to die before you,”

And,

It’s barely _ten in the morning,_

And sweat is still cooling on their bodies, 

And the smell of them fills the tiny, well-kept tavern room,

As Jaskier murmurs, _quiet_ , a little hoarse;

“I’m going to _die_ before you,” _and,_

Geralt rolls onto his elbow as his too-slow heart stumbles over itself,

Rolls onto his elbow to peer down at the bard lying beside him, smelling of the both of them, chest and cheeks still flushed from the way Geralt had made him _sing,_

And some _mournful_ new kind of softness sweeps through Geralt’s aching gut as he slides a hand over Jaskier’s jaw, as he thumbs over his lips, and his damn _throat_ starts to hurt, when Jaskier tilts his head, noses over his palm, ghosts a kiss over the heel,

As his brow furrows and his fingers dig into Geralt’s wrist, clinging _tight_ ,

_And,_

“That is, if some _beast_ doesn’t get to you first,” the bard says as his other hand splays over a garish burn on the right side of Geralt’s chest, “but I’d doubt it. You’ve been devoured by a Selkiemore and come out - _mostly unscathed,_ ”

“Jaskier,”

“So that means _I’ll_ go first,”

“ _Jaskier,”_

“And _I’ll get_ \- I’ll get _old_ and _wrinkly,_ oh, Gods _help me,”_

“Little lark -”

“My _hair_ will fall out,”

And Geralt heaves a sigh as Jaskier rambles, as he plucks at Geralt’s fingers and gets tense, and Geralt’s chest aches and his gut’s all in a knot and his throat hurts as he thumbs over the bridge of Jaskier’s nose,

And Jaskier’s saying, “I’ll hurt when it _rains_ and complain _all the damn time_ and won’t be able to get out of bed,” as Geralt wedges between his kiss-bitten thighs, 

“You complain all the time _now,_ ” Geralt murmurs against his temple, and _Jaskier’s hands_ \- his hands _shake,_ a bit, as they slide up Geralt’s arms, tracing the scars that burn into his skin, scars Jaskier’s long since memorized, 

“And I’ll _forget_ -” and it’s _here,_ where Jaskier’s voice breaks, a little, and it’s here, where Geralt’s heart shatters, a little,

As Jaskier says, quietly, wetly; “I could forget _you,_ ” 

And,

 _Geralt doesn’t_ \- he doesn’t have any _words,_ not for this,

So he nuzzles at Jaskier’s cheek as Jaskier’s chest hitches,

And he slides his thumb under the bard’s chin, tips it up, 

Catches the faint, “ _fuck_ ,” Jaskier utters between his teeth,

And the kiss is a _painful_ kind of thing, deep in the _desperate_ way, slow in the _grieving_ way, like Jaskier’s mourning something that’s literal _dozens_ of years away, 

_And,_

“It’s far more likely I’ll get unlucky, little lark,” Geralt says against Jaskier’s pleading lips,

Which is, he realizes, even as he says it, _absolutely,_

_Completely,_

_Utterly,_

The _wrong fucking thing to say,_

And he knows that, even as it spills out of his _fool_ mouth,

And Jaskier’s shaking hands clutch at his shoulders as his thighs curl up against Geralt’s hips, as his breath _snaps_ and _breaks_ in his chest, as his blue eyes get - get a little _too bright,_ and,

 _“Fuck,_ ” Geralt mutters, “Jaskier -”

“I love you,” Jaskier blurts, voice _tight_ , lodged sideways in his throat, and Geralt’s fool heart goes about as fast as it can, as it always does whenever the bard says those words, _and,_

“I don’t want to get _old,_ Geralt,” Jaskier says thickly, “I’m ignoring _entirely_ what you just said, _by the way,_ if you couldn’t _tell_ , so back to _me,”_

_“Jaskier,”_

“I’m going to get _old_ and crotchety and my _hair will fall out_ and -”

Geralt drops his head to Jaskier’s shoulder as the bard _rambles_ , and after a beat, the Witcher starts to gather him up, gathers Jaskier up with ease and sits back on his heels, dragging the bard over his thighs,

As;

“I don’t want to _forget you,_ ” and,

“That sounds like the _worst_ punishment in the _world,_ to forget you,” and,

“And I’m going to be _wrinkly_ and _ugly_ and my _hair will fall ou_ t and you’ll find some - some _young thing_ to replace me, I mean, _look_ at you,”

Which makes Geralt _growl,_ a little, makes his gut clench, makes him _itch_ between the shoulder-blades where he can’t reach, and Jaskier groans when Geralt grips his nape and drags him into a silencing, heat-strapped kiss,

And Geralt doesn’t have many words, for this kind of thing, but he figures he must say the right thing when he murmurs, against Jaskier’s lips, “where you go, _I_ go, little lark. If you cross to the other side, I go with you,” and,

He figures it must be the _right thing_ to say,

Because even though Jaskier looks _wretched_ with it when he tips back,

His expression goes _soft,_

And Geralt _means it,_

He _does,_

Thought that just,

Kind of went without _saying,_

And it’s Jaskier’s damn nameday and _they should be_ \- doing whatever it is _normal people_ who didn’t hunt _monsters_ did on days like this,

But Jaskier _melts_ into Geralt’s chest as he fiddles with his white locks, as he touches his lips to Geralt’s again and _again_ , until the kisses are sticky and dewy, until Geralt’s burring in his chest and Jaskier’s hips strain against him,

Until Geralt’s reaching for the oil on the nightstand, _and,_

“I shouldn’t let you _say things_ like that,” Jaskier murmurs, and then the bard is moaning, moaning so sweet against Geralt’s cheekbone as the Witcher guides him back over his cock, “oh, _fuck_ , darling -”

“As I shouldn’t let you spout the nonsense you just did,” Geralt counters, deep voice going taut as he buries himself in the wet heat of the bard’s lithe body, 

And no body will ever compare to _this one,_ not any, _ever,_ anywhere in the _world,_

And _no_ scent will compare to the smell of Jaskier’s skin, 

And _no_ taste will compare to his, to the sweetness of his sweat, the rich seasalt-honey of his seed, 

_And,_

“It’s not - _Geralt_ , fuck - _right,”_

But,

“You write of dying for love all the _time_ ,” the Witcher burrs against Jaskier’s ear, as he rolls slow and easy into the heat of the bard, as he tries to temper the fire surging up his spine; “don’t believe what you’re _preaching,_ little lark?”

_“Geralt -”_

“Where _you_ go,” Geralt breathes as he lowers Jaskier to the sheets, cages him down, as he meets blue eyes gone too bright, “ _I_ go,”

And,

Jaskier’s breath snags _painfully_ in his chest,

But then he’s hauling Geralt in for a kiss that has the Witcher _melting_ into him, has Geralt’s lungs _burning_ with the way they _ache_ to fill themselves with the cracking, broken breaths the bard so _willingly_ gives,

And perhaps this is the best way to spend a nameday,

Is reminding themselves how very _alive_ they are,

As Geralt drags _gentle_ croons and grating _keens_ from Jaskier, 

As the bard palms over his chest, _right_ over Geralt’s heartbeat,

As their bodies twine and become _one_ ,

And,

Jaskier comes undone by Geralt’s hand, comes apart with an arcing cry of the Witcher’s name, the kind of song that has Geralt baring his teeth against Jaskier’s throat as the _scent_ of him crashes into him, as it chases gooseflesh down Geralt’s spine, over his arms,

The arms that hold Jaskier _so_ well, 

The arms that _keep_ him,

Were probably _made_ to,

_And,_

Geralt laves his tongue through the proof of life on Jaskier’s belly as he buries proof of devotion between his thighs, and the bard _whines_ , whines low and _sweet_ when Geralt bows over him, when Geralt kisses up the damp column of his throat, drags his teeth over his jaw,

When Geralt murmurs, “ _everything_ dies, little lark. One day, we’ll cross the veil, but we’ll be lucky enough to live and love before we do - and that’s all I give a _damn_ about,” 

And he figures he must say the right things, sometimes,

Because Jaskier’s bright blue eyes are _so_ soft as they sweep over Geralt’s face, and he cups Geralt’s jaw with a steady hand, because the fear that made him _shake_ is _dissipating_ , slowly withdrawing its serrated claws from Jaskier’s song-struck heart, 

As Geralt nuzzles at the bridge of his nose,

As their bodies twine and melt together,

And he must say the _right thing_ sometimes,

Because when Geralt puts his lips to Jaskier’s ear and breathes, “ _I love you_ ,” 

Every worry the bard held so _tight_ seems to, just,

_Flee,_

And _this_ is the way they’ll spend the nameday,

Is reminding themselves how very _alive_ they are,

How very _lucky_ they were,

To _find_ one another,

To be able to _live_ and _love,_

And _one day,_ they’ll cross the veil,

But _first,_

They’ll have _thousands_ of moments like this,

And that’s all that _matters,_


End file.
